


We Sang Along To The Start of Forever

by prosciutto



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Royalty, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-24
Updated: 2017-04-24
Packaged: 2018-10-22 19:45:28
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,973
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10703844
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/prosciutto/pseuds/prosciutto
Summary: Going to college is one of those things that Clarke has been preparing for her entire life. She has to really, considering that an extensive amount of research and preparation is required when you’re the Princess of a dated and stupidly antiquated form of government.(Granted, the extent of her research only goes as far as to adding The Princess Diaries to her Netflix queue, buttechnicalities.)Or: Clarke's college experience would be a lot more pleasant if Bellamy Blake stopped trying to figure her out.





	We Sang Along To The Start of Forever

 

Going to college is one of those things that Clarke has been preparing for her entire life. She has to really, considering that an extensive amount of research and preparation is required when you’re the Princess of a dated and stupidly antiquated form of government. 

(Granted, the extent of her research only goes as far as to adding The Princess Diaries to her Netflix queue, but  _ technicalities. _ )

Still, none of it could have prepared her for Bellamy Blake.

The first time she meets him, he’s arguing with the professor about the required reading list.

It’s not like she means to listen in on their conversation, but he’s one of those people that you can’t _help_ but notice—all bronzed skin and muscles and artfully mussed hair. Coupled with the way he’s furiously gesticulating with his hands and the frazzled expression on his face, and, _well_. She’ll admit that she’s sufficiently intrigued.

“This is a Politics and Literature course, Mr. Blake,” the professor huffs, exasperated. “The whole point of the course involves looking at how fiction helps understand and express politics.”

The guy — _ last name Blake _ , Clarke reminds herself — looks distinctly put out by that. “And I don’t have a problem with that,” he points out, folding his arms across his chest. “What I  _ do  _ have a problem with is how all the books on the reading list are drawn from the  _ same  _ historical and cultural setting.”

A quick glance at the syllabus confirms it, but —

“Actually,” she pipes up, tapping at the sheet before her, “ _ The White Tiger  _ is set in India, so...”

He turns the full-force of his glare on her, then, brow arched. “It’s  _ one  _ novel on a list of  _ twelve _ ,” he says, dismissive. “That’s hardly enough.”

_ I agree,  _ she doesn’t get to say, before he’s sweeping his gaze over her — disdain clear as he takes in the MacBook perched on her lap, to the watch strapped to her wrist, and all the way down to her newly polished shoes.

“I wouldn’t expect you to understand, _Princess,_ ” he says, venomous, and she can practically _feel_ her hackles rising in response.

Bristling, she opens her mouth, a retort already forming on her tongue, when she receives a swift kick to the ankle, startling her enough that she squeaks instead.

Scowling, she shifts her gaze over to Roan. A bodyguard had been one of the stipulated conditions to this whole arrangement, and he’d been her pick mostly because she’s gotten used to his hulking presence over the years. There’s also the added bonus factor of his notorious unflappability and calm even in the most trying of situations—which explains why he’s currently regarding her with nothing but an arched brow and a pointed widening of his eyes; a wordless reminder of the need to be inconspicuous. Or at least subtle enough to  _ not  _ bring attention to herself (and by extension, her status) on the first day of school. 

Slumping over in her seat, she relents, hiding her glower behind a curtain of hair.

It doesn’t seem to placate Blake all that much, if the irritated half-snort he gives is any indication. Still, he skulks back to his seat, plopping down in the chair directly behind hers.

The first half an hour of class passes by without issue, and she finds herself relaxing halfway through, against her better judgment, focusing on the lecture itself and jotting down notes during the lulls. Her gaze drifts on over to Blake, from time to time, but  _ only  _ because he’s one of the few seated within her vicinity. His handwriting is a angry scrawl, and she thinks she catches a glimpse of a  _ B  _ in his first name as well. When he’s not scribbling out notes or shooting everyone else dirty looks, he’s chewing on the cap of his pen, fingers tapping out a distracting rhythm on the tabletop.

He catches her gaze soon after, and she flushes at the realization that he caught her staring.

“What?” she challenges, before he can get a word out. “You have something to say to me?”

“Not really,” he smirks, his gaze roving over her once more, lingering at the ID badge she has slung over her neck. “So. You’re a freshman.”

It’s a statement rather than a question, but she nods anyway.

“Wow,” he drawls. There’s a kind of smugness to it that suggests that he’s gotten  _ exactly  _ what he wanted from her affirmation alone, and it makes her want to do questionable things, like stomp on his foot. “That’s pretty impressive, considering how this course has a required class standing that I’m sure a freshman like yourself has yet to fulfill.”

It’s difficult to keep her surprise from showing at that, and she has to bite at her lip to keep from gaping.  _ Shit.  _ It’s certainly not unexpected, though, considering her mother’s influence, and Clarke had only skimmed through the course catalogue before picking out the courses that appealed to her most. Taking a deep breath, she shoots him a tight smile,  _ praying  _ that it comes off convincing. “Well, I guess I had enough transferral credits.”

“ _ You’re  _ a transfer?” he scoffs, narrowing his eyes over at her. “Where from?”

She blinks, her gaze landing on Roan for a split-second. “Mecha,” she says smoothly, the lie coming easy. “But I was looking for a change in scenery, so.”

“You transferred from Mecha,” he says, dubious, “to  _ Ark U _ ?”

“That’s right,” she says, jutting her chin out defiantly. “Like I said, I needed a change.”

He mulls over that, his expression contemplative. Then, with a half-hearted shrug of his shoulders, he says, “You know, you could have just admitted that you’re a trust fund kid and I would have let it go, right?”

This time, she can’t quite hold back on her offended gasp. “ _ What? _ ”

“Wait, I think I got it,” he continues, his voice taking on a mocking edge. “You have a parent on the college admissions board.”

“No!”

“So, they made a sizable donation to the school and I’m going to see a—” he pauses, squinting over at her ID, “—  _ Clarke Griffin  _ wing in a few months, right? Arts or Sciences, you think?”

“ _ Neither _ ,” she hisses, seething. Vaguely, she’s aware that everyone else is getting up from their seats, the rising noise level signalling that class is over. “God, I don’t even know why I’m still standing here trying to  _ justify _ myself to you, when—”

“Bellamy!”

The voice snags at her attention, and she turns away from him to look at the source of the intrusion. She’s pretty, Clarke thinks, with startling green eyes, a sharp jaw and hair trailing down to her back, and it doesn’t occur to her that it’s  _ Blake  _ she’s referring to until he says, “I’ll be there in a minute, O.”

Well. At least she finally can put a name to the face.

“I’ve got to go,” Bellamy tells her, the corners of his mouth quirking up into that same infuriating smirk. “But hey, see you same time Friday, Princess.”

She swears she hears Roan choke out a laugh when she flips him off, making sure to barge straight past him before slamming the door shut behind her.

 

+

Raven’s the one who brings him up a few weeks after the Incident.

“So, Roan tells me that you’ve made a new friend.” She grins, deliberately casual in a way that Clarke knows is meant to mask genuine curiosity, before flopping down onto her unmade bed. “Care to confirm?”

Snorting, she drops back onto her sheets as well, making the bed groan ominously under their combined weight. “Yeah, friend isn’t the word I’d use. Nemesis? Probably. A utter pain in my ass who won’t leave me alone? Definitely.”

“Huh,” Raven muses, “you know, we’ve had conversations that started like this which somehow  _ ended _ with you admitting that you have a humongous crush on said person, right?”

Clarke can’t help the rush of heat that slithers up her cheeks at that, a yelp escaping before she can help herself. “ _ Once! _ ” she wails, grabbing at a pillow so she could stuff her face into it, groaning. “Jesus, Rae. Let it go.”

“There was Lexa, and Niylah, and—”

She lobs the pillow over instead, pegging the side of Raven’s cheek as she bursts into laughter, rolling away from the half-hearted assault.

“God,” she huffs, folding her arms across her chest. “You know what? I don’t think you should be allowed to visit me here ever again. I fucking forbid it.”

Waving her off, she bounces off the bed instead, trailing a finger over the stack of books piled by her desk. “Nah, you’ll miss me too much.”

“Unfortunately,” she admits, pushing up on her elbows. It’s surreal, seeing Raven  _ here,  _ surrounded by the numerous bulletin boards and post-it notes and hasty, charcoal-drawn sketches that she’s come to associate with her dorm room. As far as she could remember, Raven had always belonged back in the palace, with her. “You’re staying for a week, right?”

“Four days,” she says, grimacing. “Your mom can only spare me for so long, unfortunately.”

It’ll be pointless to argue about this, really, so she opts to move on instead. “Okay, I guess this means we have to bump some stuff off our schedule. What do you want to do first? Lunch, or a tour of the campus?”

“How about we start off by you telling me about this supposed nemesis instead?”

“You’re like a dog with a bone,” she grumbles, slumping back onto her sheets. And mostly because the likelihood of Raven just letting it go is close to zilch, she relents. “Okay, fine. What do you want to know?”

“Important stuff, of course,” she replies, punctuating it with a little roll of her eyes. “Name, age, shape of his ass. The facts.”

Frowning, she considers this. “Uh. I met Bellamy at my Politics and Literature module, where he basically busted my  _ ass  _ for being there because of my freshman status. My mom must have pulled some strings or something, because I shouldn’t be able to take it considering you need a set amount of course credits—”

“Pause,” Raven interjects, sliding her phone into her free palm. “Does he happen to be blonde?”

For a second, she can only stare. “Firstly, no. And secondly, this matters,  _ how _ ?”

“Because I’m looking him up on this Facebook group you’re part of,” she says, matter-of-fact. “PO-119 Arkadia U 2017?”

“Seriously?” she ekes out, incredulous. “You couldn’t even  _ wait  _ for me to finish my—”

“Bellamy Blake, sophomore, history major,” Raven states, tapping at her screen rapidly. “He has a sister in the local high school a few miles from here, judging from his tagged photos and he’s a resident at the Dupree dorm.”

Giving a disapproving shake of her head, she sits up, glaring. “You know that this is a total invasion of his privacy, right?”

“Not when it’s up on Facebook,” Raven rebuts, turning the screen over briefly so she could glimpse at the familiar blue of the logo. “That’s public information. It’s not like I said he was a possible threat to the crown and asked  _ Monty _ to look him up.”

That’s true, at least, but it still makes her feel strangely uneasy despite everything; torn between wanting to know more and wanting to know absolutely  _ nothing  _ about Bellamy Blake. Jiggling her knee restlessly before her, she takes a surreptitious peek over at Raven, her thumb flicking at the screen fluidly.

“Just… hand it over,” she mumbles, shooting her a warning look when she gives a little cheer.

He doesn’t seem to be all that much active on Facebook, which she’s weirdly grateful for, though she does figure out that the girl who showed up all those weeks back is his sister—  one Octavia Blake whom he’s tagged in countless photos with. She’s about to hand the phone back when her gaze snags on the list of groups he’s a part of.

Namely, the  _ Arkadia U Students’ Scholarship Network. _

Swearing, she jabs at the home screen button, summoning up Raven’s lock screen instead.

“What?” Raven asks, suddenly alert. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” she manages, biting at her lip. “Uh, I guess I figured out why he hates me so much. Or why he hates rich, entitled assholes who get their parents to buy their way into the school, to be more specific.”

Brows knitting together in confusion, she reaches for her phone, expression clearing after a few taps at the screen. “Oh,” she says, planting a hand on her hip. “I mean, yeah, I get it, but. Still doesn’t excuse his dickish behavior, or anything.”

“I know,” she says, wincing at the creak of her bones when she gets to her feet. “But it makes it sort of understandable, you know? No wonder he makes that face whenever I get a question right in class, or god forbid, have an opinion he actually agrees with. He probably thinks that I’m not taking _any_ of this seriously.”

There’s a beat as Raven considers this, her fingers reaching up absently to tighten at her ponytail.

“Well,” she says finally, patting at her shoulder sympathetically. “Only one way I can to resolve this.”

“What?”

“Beat him at his own game,” she shrugs, linking her arm through hers to steady her as she struggles with her boots. “Get a better grade than him at everything. Or, you know,” she continues, arching a brow over at her. “You could just ignore him.”

For some reason, the thought of it makes her chest clench; the same visceral reaction she has every time he spits out  _ Princess  _ between teeth. It’s a desire to prove him wrong, a desire to make him  _ see  _ her like how she saw herself. For who she really was. She wished she knew  _ why _ it felt so important to her, but the reason for it evaded her every time.

“The former sounds like a plan,” she says, innocent, pointedly ignoring the exasperated look Raven shoots her in response. (It’s possible that Raven’s just reading too much into things anyway.)

 

+

It’s not like Bellamy wants to make things  _ easy  _ for her, so of course he doesn’t show up for class that week.

“I can’t believe him,” she fumes, gathering her books into her arms. “This is just… rude, you know? It’s like he’s out to sabotage me at  _ every _ opportunity.”

“Oh, yeah, totally,” Roan deadpans, trailing after her. “It’s almost as if decided to deliberately fuck with your plans of beating him this semester despite you  _ not  _ informing him of said plans. How dare he, really.”

She shoots him the most withering look she can muster at that. “You do know that you’re supposed to be on my side, right?”

“I’m still not sure as to how there are sides to take in this considering the poor bastard doesn’t even know that he’s in a competition.”

“Trust me,” she grumbles, peeking down at the lines and lines of text that she hastily scribbled into her notebook just hours back, “he knows.”

Or maybe he doesn’t, considering he’s conspicuously absent in the next class,  _ and  _ the next. In fact, Clarke’s half convinced that he’s dropped out when he finally shows up the week after, looking a little worse for wear. There are dark shadows under his eyes that weren’t there before, his hair a mess of curls and clothes distinctly rumpled. A part of her is almost tempted to say something about it when he plops down in his usual seat behind her, but she snaps her mouth shut instead. It’s not like it’s any of her business, anyway.

He’s strangely subdued all throughout class, only interjecting once or twice to ask a few questions about the upcoming assignment. She even tries baiting him a little by talking about  _ The American Wife _ , which she knows is a book he  _ hates _ —to no avail.

It’s disconcerting, to say the least. She almost misses the old, argumentative Bellamy.

She’s packing up her things when she realizes that he still has his head bent over his notebook, pen jerking over the page furiously. His notes have never exactly been neat or even legible, really, but the series of question marks and asterisks scattered throughout the page serve as pretty good indicators of his current predicament.

Wetting her lips, she clears her throat. Loudly.

His head jerks up at that, meeting her gaze easily. “Princess,” he says in greeting, a hint of a smile tugging at his lips. “Need something?”

“Not exactly,” she shrugs, eyeing the pen clutched tightly between his fingers. “But I’m pretty sure that you do, though.”

His smile is tight, revealing just a hint of teeth. “Nah. I’m good.”

“Sure,” she agrees, mimicking the forced nonchalance of his tone. “I can see that.”

That pulls a scowl out of him. “Fine, maybe I’m lagging behind just a little. I wouldn’t get too cocky, though. I’ll catch up soon enough.”

“By yourself?” she asks, trying (and failing) to keep the note of incredulity from showing in her voice. “So, I take it you’re planning on becoming an astrophysicist too? Because it kind of falls into the same realm of possibility.”

“That sounds totally plausible,” he comments, mild.

She snorts, giving a pointed roll of her eyes. “If you really think that, then you’re a lot more deluded than I thought.”

The noise that leaves his throat at that is distinctly impatient. “Look, I’ll be fine, okay? You and your—” he wrinkles his nose over at Roan, sizing him up “—  _ guard dog  _ can go now. I’ll handle it.” 

“Roan’s my friend,” she counters, working to keep herself from  _ reacting  _ to the accuracy of that statement. Then, before she can talk herself out of it, she drops her notebook down before him with a loud  _ smack.  _ “Just— fine, see that pink tab there? That’s from last week’s notes. Read it, and if there’s anything else you don’t get, you know where to find me. I live at Elm, ground floor.” 

Bellamy opens his mouth, all ready to argue—

“Or just return it to me in class next week,” she continues, barreling right over his protests. “Or don’t. Whatever. I don’t need them.”

She bolts before he can say anything else, weaving into the safety of the crowd without a second glance back.

(Roan calls Raven up to tell her about it the next day, and she tries not to sulk when she hears her lilting laugh drifting through the phone.)

A large part of her almost _ expects _ him to have dumped her notebook in a paper shredder the next time she heads to class—or, well, perhaps simply abandoned it elsewhere in the less dramatic version of things, so, suffice to say, she’s a little surprised to see it balanced on his thigh when she arrives.

Sucking in a deep breath, she quickens her pace, darting past him and flopping down into her usual seat.

There’s a long, awkward beat, and she can actually  _ feel  _ his gaze on her back—

“I’m not done yet,” he says, abrupt, his fingers grazing her shoulder lightly as if to remind her that he was talking to her. “But your notes have been, uh, really helpful so far. So, you know. Thank you.”

“Good,” Clarke manages, swallowing. “I’m glad.”

There is another long, tense pause before he speaks, an admittance more than anything, grudging and admiring all at once. “I do have a couple of questions, though.”

Biting back a smile, she turns over to face him, uncapping her pen fluidly. “I’m listening.”

  
  


+

It’s not as if things between them are good _ ,  _ after that, though they are most definitely  _ better _ .

They still disagree on a lot of things (see: Citizen Kane vs. All The President’s Men, fiction vs. nonfiction, and most notably, the necessity of pineapple on pizza) but it’s  _ fun,  _ almost, to argue over their respective stances. It keeps things interesting, at least, and she admits that there is something inherently admirable about the strength of Bellamy’s convictions. It makes it all the more satisfying when she actually gets him to  _ admit  _ to seeing things differently because of her, and she tries not to get too smug whenever it happens (which is frequently).

She calls him Blake and an assortment of other insults because it irks him, and he still stubbornly refuses to give up on the Princess nickname. Sometimes, he sweeps eraser dust down her chair or she ties his laces together, so the obvious solution to that is to sit next to one another to keep that from happening.

If Clarke is being entirely honest, well _.  _ It’s almost as if they’re  _ friends _ sometimes— albeit overly competitive ones that spend way too much time trying to one-up each other in class.

He pushes her notebook towards her in lieu of a greeting when he sees her, sliding himself into the next chair.

“I’m going to go out on a limb here,” she comments, dry, eyeing the sheaf of papers tucked along the spine of her notebook, “and guess that you have an issue with my interpretation of the The Handmaid’s Tale.”

“What?” He startles, lapsing into a frown. “No. I mean, a  _ little,  _ but that’s not what all the papers are for.”

“Sure.” She grins, squinting down at the page before her. Then, pitching her voice exaggeratedly low in a poor approximation of his voice, “ _ Agree with your points on foreshadowing, but not entirely sure the use of literary devices in the book was _ —”

“That has nothing to do with the rest of it,” he points out, irritable, poking at her wrist with the end of his pencil. “Just— read that later. Look at the next page.”

Shooting him a skeptical look, she obliges.

“It’s, uh,” he says, uncharacteristically nervous, “ideas for the upcoming partner assignment. You know, the one where we get to pick a novel and write a paper on the underlying political themes and its relevance to society today.”

She glances over at him, has to bite at the inside of her cheek to taper her smile. He’s  _ fidgeting _ —knee jiggling restlessly and palm resting against the back of his neck, rubbing aimless circles along skin. It’s cute, and she probably shouldn’t tease him about it, but—

“I know,” she says, nonchalant. “I read the brief. What about it?”

“Right.” Bellamy blinks, looking a little stunned. “So. I guess I’m going to have to come right out and say it.”

“Say what, now?”

The muscles of his jaw flutters imperceptibly at that, a sure indicator of tension, as evidenced by their previous interactions— teeth snagging at his bottom lip as he takes a deep breath. “Look, I’m not sure if you have a partner yet, but—”

“Eh,” she interjects, cocking her chin consideringly. “Yeah, you have Fahrenheit 451 written down here but I’m  _ definitely  _ not up for that. And I’m not crazy about 1984 either. I’m impartial to The Dispossessed.”

His brows rise up to his hairline at that, expression disbelieving. “Wait. So— that’s a yes?”

“Yeah,” she continues, her form shaking from barely concealed laughter, “didn’t I say that before?”

“ _ No, _ ” he huffs, folding his arms over his chest defensively when she begins to crack up, mouth twisting into a pout. “Nice to see that my inner  _ turmoil  _ brings you so much joy.”

Snorting, she bumps her ankle against his. “Oh, come on. You were so nervous, I couldn’t help it.”

“And also because you really like seeing me squirm, don’t you?”

“Naturally,” she agrees, grinning. “Next time,” she starts, the words spilling out before she can rethink them, “just take it as a given, okay?”

His ears go pink at that, and she has to turn her face away to keep her flush from showing.

“Sure,” he says finally, his voice cracking on the word when he tells her, “same applies for you, Clarke.”

 

+

She’s the one who suggests the coffee house, mostly because of the steady supply of caffeine available, as well as its relative quiet compared to the constant hubbub of the quad.

“Okay,” Roan observes, picking at his teeth with all the ease of a lounging jungle cat, the movement still strangely predatory despite his relaxed stance. “So, I take it that there weren’t much options for romantic venues on a college campus?”

“ _ What? _ ” Clarke sputters, her voice trailing off into a vicious swear when the brush in her hand goes tumbling out of her grip and onto the floor. “Jesus, Roan. I  _ told  _ you, this is a project meeting. As in, schoolwork.”

The noise that he makes can only be described as incredulous. “I didn’t think people got dressed up for project meetings anymore.”

“I’m  _ not, _ ” she scowls, running her gaze over the dress and cardigan combination that she and Raven had picked out over Skype last night. “Fine, maybe the belt is a little fancy, but it’s a  _ necessity,  _ as you can tell. I’m not exactly draped in jewels here or anything.”

“Right.” He smirks, dropping into a crouch to grab at the brush before tossing it onto her vanity, now cluttered with pots and pots of mostly unused makeup and hair products. “Sorry. My mistake.”

Huffing, she shoots him the dirtiest look she can muster before reaching for the brush. “It’s like you don’t even  _ try,  _ sometimes.”

“I never do,” he drawls, sweeping the door open with a tap of his foot when she reaches for her purse.

Bellamy’s already there by the time she makes her way over, sipping from a steaming mug and fiddling with the strap of his watch. After giving some muttered instructions to Roan to  _ stay  _ at the bar (something he’s not too thrilled about), she heads over, smoothing out the wrinkles of her dress surreptitiously.

He brightens when he spots her, lips stretching into a smile that makes him look _stupidly_ boyish. Her heart stutters unevenly in her chest at that, and it takes almost all of her willpower to keep from staring like an idiot.

“Hey.” He grins, jerking his chin at the seat across from his until she drops down on it, none-too-gracefully. “You know, I never noticed how freakishly perfect your posture is.”

She blinks, her breath catching just a fraction when he cocks his head over at her in question. That, coupled with the bright, disarming smile, and she’s pretty much gone for. It’s impossible to concentrate when he’s _looking_ at her like that. “What?”

“Posture,” he repeats, expression dropping off into a small frown. “You okay, Clarke? You look kind of flushed.”

“Right,” she manages, running a palm over her face. “Uh, well. I had classes for it and everything, so.”

It only dawns on her that she must have slipped up when he leans forward on his elbows, brow knitted and clearly confused. “Classes… for posture?”

“Yeah, uhm.” Clarke shrugs, working to keep her voice light. Breezy. “My mom was really particular about this sort of thing.”

“Ah, okay,” he teases, and she can’t help but feel a little gratified at how the words are devoid of the kind of animosity that he used to exhibit back in the early day. “Rich people stuff. I get it now.”

She makes a face at that, flicking at the pencil that has somehow managed to roll its way out of her notebook. “More like a,  _ my mom _ , sort of thing. But sure.”

He reaches over to swipe the pencil from her, twirling it between her fingers. “You’re not her biggest fan, I take it?”

“No, I mean,” she groans, pushing her hands through her hair before grimacing at the realization that she probably undid the hours of work spent on perfecting her chignon, “do we have our problems? Definitely. Doesn’t mean I don’t love her. It’s just… complicated.”

“It always is,” he says, wry. “Though, I’m betting that there’s a whole dramatic story out there about how she ruined your childhood by selling off your beloved childhood pony, or something.”

She squints over at him, reaching over to bat at his forearm. “I feel like I should be worried that all your knowledge of rich people seems to have stemmed from watching The Princess Diaries one too many times.”

“Hey, it’s a  _ good  _ movie.”

They get side-tracked after that, and she tries not to dwell about how  _ easy  _ it is to tell him about everything: about her mom and her childhood (well, most of it, sans the royal status). Being home-schooled, and feeling lonely for most of it. The books she read and the movies she liked and her  _ dad,  _ even. He’s a good listener, she learns, and turns out to be even better at taking things into his stride, which she appreciates. Nothing pisses her off quite like faux sympathy or half-hearted attempts at advice, and he provides none of them.

He reciprocates with some information of his own, after. She learns about his sister, and his mom, and how the week of classes he missed had to do with Octavia’s emancipation papers. He tells her about how he got into history, how his dad was never around, and how he spent a few years just being fucking  _ angry _ all the time. It doesn’t come easy to him, she thinks, judging from the bob of his throat and the long pauses in between, and it almost feels as if she’s being let in on the huge secret that is Bellamy Blake. (It makes her feel strangely triumphant and guilty, all the same, and her stomach flips nastily at the thought of how he’d take it if he ever found out that she’s been omitting key parts of her life from him.)

It doesn’t even occur to her that they’ve been talking for  _ hours  _ until Roan approaches, tapping at her shoulder impatiently.

“They’re closing up in a bit,” he says pointedly, glancing down at their now-empty cups, “and I think you’re forgetting that we also have dinner plans.”

“Right,” Clarke says hastily, catching the meaning behind his words. She had forgotten about her scheduled call with Abby in light of meeting Bellamy, and there was no way she could talk to her with Bellamy right  _ here.  _ “Sorry, I lost track of time. Anyway, uhm. You guys know each other, right?”

“Sure,” Roan says, dry. Then, to Bellamy, “I’m Clarke’s brooding, anti-social friend.”

“I figured,” he shoots right back, “considering we see each other on a weekly basis. But, uh, yeah. You should go, Clarke.”

She doesn’t so much as  _ graze  _ her foot past Roan’s ankle, but he still startles anyway, his jaw twitching when he turns away. “I’ll be waiting outside.”

“Sure,” she says, bright, biting back a sigh of relief when he pushes his way out. “So, uh. We didn’t get all that much stuff done this meeting.”

That pulls a small, half-smile out of him, and she thinks she shivers when he reaches over to weave her pencil back into the remains of her messy bun, the tips of his fingers ghosting against skin. “Depends on your definition of it,” he says, peering at her through a dark fan of lashes; somehow managing to look simultaneously sweet and fucking  _ hot  _ all at once. “But, hey. We can always do this again, right?”

“Definitely,” she tells him with a kind of confidence she didn’t think she was capable of in her current state, waiting until he darts out of the room before dropping her head back onto the table, groaning.  _ Jesus _ . She’s in so much trouble.

 

+

As much as Clarke would like to obsess over her apparent feelings for Bellamy Blake, it’s seemingly impossible to when there are finals to consider and her mom’s birthday to worry about and a whole other laundry list of things to settle, so it’s not as if she has the time to really  _ think  _ about it.

(At this point, the only thing she’s sure about is that there’s definitely something there. It’s, as Raven would not so delicately put it, ridiculously transparent.)

Still, it’s hard to be worrying about it when she has a Philosophy final in two hours and a paper due in three.

Stifling yet another yawn, she gropes fruitlessly under her desk until she finds her pair of slippers, shoving her feet into them before shuffling out of the door. The coffee from the common room was miserable at best, but she ran out of instant coffee packets about an hour back, so stale, watered down caffeine would have to do. She’s not stupid enough to assume that she’d be able to survive finals without  _ coffee. _

The place is blessedly empty when she gets there, though so is the pot. Humming lightly to herself, she fills it up with water, measures out the grinds. There’s something inherently soothing about the routine, and she finds herself relaxing as the water comes to a boil.

She’s pouring the coffee into her mug when a noise by the doorway catches her attention, nearly startling her into upending the entire pot onto the ground.

“Sorry,” the voice says, materializing by her elbow. “To be fair, I didn’t think anyone else would be here.”

“Neither did I,” she retorts, trying to calm the thumping of her pulse as she turns over to face him, jolting at the realization that Bellamy’s wearing  _ glasses.  _ And sweatpants, though those are significantly less impactful than the former.

He stares right back at her, brow arched. “What?”

“Nothing,” she says, hastily snapping her gaze away, cheeks hot. “Didn’t know you wear glasses, that’s all.”

“Yeah, I use contact lenses most of the time.” He shrugs, extending his mug out until she gets the message, tipping the pot towards it. “But I’m finding it pretty hard to give a shit about vanity with finals going on.”

She can’t help her snort at that, setting the pot down before clinking her mug against his. “Tell me about it.”

“Oh, come on.” He smirks, raking his gaze from her messy bun down to the fluffy slippers on her feet. “This is a pretty good look for you, I think.”

Groaning, she shoves at his chest lightly, yelping when the force of it nearly sends her off balance instead. “You’re a  _ jerk _ .”

That pulls a laugh out of him, bright and surprised. “You’re the one who shoved me, and  _ I’m  _ the jerk?”

“Yeah, because you’re making fun of me!”

“How does saying that you look good constitute as making fun of you?” he asks, mild, dodging her arm and stepping into her space fluidly; close enough that she can feel his warm breath against her cheek.

“ _ Because, _ ” Clarke blusters, gesturing down at her stained jersey and matching sleep shorts, “it’s a pretty blatant lie, okay? I look like I just rolled out of bed. Hell, I  _ did  _ sort of just roll out of bed.”

Bellamy cocks his head over at her, realization dawning over his face. “You know that I mean it, right? I’m not trying to flatter you, or spare your feelings, or—”

She means to swat at his shoulder, but he catches her wrist before she can make contact, his grip loose against her skin. Her breath hitches at the movement, involuntary, and she can’t help but glance down at his lips, the proximity dizzying.

Swallowing, she breaks the sudden silence first, pitching forward slightly on her toes. “Or?”

For a second, he can only stare, looking a little dazed. “What?”

“You were saying something,” she prompts, repressing a small shiver when his palm slides upwards to enclose hers in his; his palm comically large against hers.

“Right,” he rasps, tongue darting out to wet his lips. “You didn’t think I was being sincere.”

A small, nervous laugh escapes; her fingers intertwining with his instinctively. “Definitely not.”

“Well, you’re wrong,” he continues, shifting closer, lips grazing the side of her mouth, just shy of where she wants it. Then, sounding almost pained, “You’re kind of— shit, you’re fucking beautiful okay? And just— everything. It’s  _ you _ .”

“I’m definitely going to want you to elaborate on that,” she murmurs, leaning in, noses bumping—

Just as the door slams open with a loud  _ thump,  _ causing them to pull apart.

The person in question shoots them an apologetic look, blushing beet-red before edging past them towards the coffee pot.

Untwisting her fingers from the front of his shirt, she takes a shaky step back, her thoughts a  _ mess  _ as she scrambles for the right thing to say—

“I should go,” Bellamy blurts out, rocking back on the balls of his feet. He can’t quite seem to look at her, and it hurts more than she thought it would. “I, uh, I mentioned finals, right?”

“You did,” she manages, pasting a smile on her face, trying valiantly to tamp down the  disappointment weighing heavily against her chest. “So, yeah. Good luck with that, I guess. I should, you know. Go get prepared, too.”

His gaze softens at that, vulnerable, “Clarke—”

It feels pitying, almost, like he’s trying to let her down easy even though he’d been  _ seconds  _ away from kissing her. The thought of it stings, and she reels back from him, fumbling for the door. “I’ll see you soon, Bellamy.”

(She forces herself not to look back once she’s out of the door.)

 

+

 

_ Tuesday, 3.02pm.  _

 

**Bellamy:** Hey, I know you have that Philo final going on, but drop me a text once you’re done? I really think we should talk. 

 

_ Tuesday, 11.32pm _

 

**Bellamy:** Hope the paper went okay. 

 

_ Friday, 2.38pm _

 

**Bellamy:** Clarke?

 

+

“You’re being an idiot,” Raven tells her, after she turns her phone face-down onto her desk for the third time. “Seriously. Will you cut the guy some slack? He’s clearly going out of his mind here.”

A small, petty part of her is almost tempted to rebut with a grouchy,  _ whose side are you on, anyway?  _ but it feels way too churlish, even for her. Instead, Clarke settles for a nonchalant jerk of her chin. “I am planning on talking to him about this. Just… not now.”

“Sure,” she snorts, sounding completely unconvinced. “Because you have such a great track record at handling your problems head on, right?”

It’s a little hard to glare at Raven when she’s attempting to poke at her eye with a mascara wand, but Clarke tries her best anyway. “This is  _ different _ .”

“If you say so.”

“It is,” she insists, fluffing out the full skirt of her dress. It’s not exactly surprising that her mother’s birthday celebration comes with a formal dress code, but she didn’t think that it would mean floor-length  _ gowns,  _ either. Raven had smuggled it into her dorm room so she could take her Sociology final, and Roan would be driving them down after. Normally, she would appreciate whatever time she got with her friend, but it’s hard to remember that when she’s being  _ interrogated _ . “I actually— I really like him, okay? As a person. So I’ll take what I can get, you know? If being friends is all he wants, I’ll be okay with it.”

Raven levels a pointed look at her, making her scowl.

“Fine,” Clarke amends, huffing. “I’ll learn to be okay with it. Happy?”

“Thrilled,” she deadpans, reaching over to curl a loose lock of hair away from her face. “Now that we’ve got that out of the way, can we focus on getting you presentable for your mom’s birthday? She might kill me if you show up with all this pink in your hair.”

She slumps down in her seat, shrugging. “Go crazy.”

An hour and a half and a bottle of hairspray later, Raven deems her  _ mostly _ presentable.

“Just one last finishing touch,” she grins, all teeth and sharp corners that Clarke can’t help but feel a little nervous by considering it’s the expression she makes when she’s  _ up  _ to something—

“No way,” she groans, when she unveils the familiar box. “Seriously? This shit was cute when I was  _ twelve,  _ Rae.”

“Oh come on.” She smirks, popping the lid. “For old time’s sake?”

If past experience has taught her anything, it’s that arguing with Raven is a pointless, fruitless exercise anyway, so she relents. “Just put it on before I change my mind.”

She makes a approving noise at that, and Clarke tries not to wince at the sharp ends of the tiara comb digging into her scalp; tilting it ever so slightly so it sits lopsided on her head.

“Really?”

“It’s the only way it feels  _ comfortable, _ ” she says, prim. (It’s about as passive-aggressive as she can get when it comes to her mom, but it’s the little things.) “Ready to go?”

“I’ll text Roan to wait out front,” Raven says, before handing her purse over. “Should we be a little sneaky about this? I don’t feel like we’re being very inconspicuous.”

Frowning, she considers this. “Well, it’s the last day of finals so the dorm’s pretty much cleared out by now.” Then, nudging the door open with her foot, she peeks her head out, taking in the empty corridors. “I think we’re good.”

“I’ll get the lights.”

Craning her neck back, she manages out a hissed, “ _ And  _ the radiator—” before the words die in her throat.

Because Bellamy Blake is standing before her, looking a little more than confused.

“You—” He shakes his head as if to clear it, fingers tightening against the spine of her notebook. “I came to give this back to you. And possibly, you know, use it as an excuse to  _ talk  _ to you about everything, but, uh. You’re busy.”

She’s moving before she can really comprehend it, her feet bringing her closer to him. It’s always been like that with them; a magnetic pull, of sorts, always and inevitably drawn together despite all odds. Satellites and stars, circling the same orbit. It felt helpless to fight the gravitational pull between them, and more importantly, she didn’t  _ want  _ to.

“I have my mom’s birthday party to get to,” she says, gesturing to tiara as a means of explanation. “But, uhm. I was, you know. Just about to text you.”

His smile is wry, shoulders rising into a nonchalant shrug. “One of those fancy, rich-people shindigs, I take it?”

_ Yeah,  _ she means to say.  _ I should go.  _ And yet, she can’t quite get the words out at the look on his face, resigned and a little defeated, palm coming up to rub at the skin by the back of his neck—

“Actually,” she says, taking a deep breath, “do you have a minute? Because I have something to tell you.”

That seems to get his attention, if anything, his brows spiking up to his hairline. “You do?”

“Yeah,” she says, and she can’t help but feel a little proud at the steadiness of her voice despite the weakness of her knees, “because it’s the truth. And you can hate me after it, or tell me that you never want to see me again, but… I want you to know. Because I trust you.”

A beat as he seems to evaluate this, the confusion in his eyes plain. She doesn’t miss the moment when he seems to come to a decision, though, the tense muscle of his jaw popping once more before he goes, hesitant, “Lead the way, Princess.” 

 

+

There’s a healthy amount of skepticism on his face when she starts telling him everything, though it’s not  _ entirely  _ unexpected considering her life reads like the synopsis of of the next Princess Diaries movie.

He pretty much tells her so, once she’s done.

“I’d think that you’re lying, if it didn’t make so much sense,” Bellamy grouses, running a palm over his face. “ _ Jesus,  _ Clarke. And you managed to keep it secret, all this time?”

“For as long as I’ve been here, yeah,” she says absently, rubbing her bare feet against the grass. Somehow, they’ve wandered over to the miniature garden by the back of the dorm as they were talking, and she had pitched her shoes off to avoid getting them stained. “It’s not exactly hard, considering I’ve made about three friends here.”

He makes a reassuring noise at that. “The whole making friends in college deal is overrated, anyway.”

“Well,” she shrugs, and mostly because she has nothing more to lose anyway, “I did meet you. So I don’t think it’s all that much of a bust.”

He flushes at that, the color spreading down to his neck. It’s a good look on him, and a far cry from the sullen, grumpy guy that she met on the first day of school. “So,” he says, clearing his throat, “any other life-altering secrets you want to tell me? Your best friend is a oil heiress? Firefly never actually got cancelled and I made the whole thing up in my head?”

“But  _ is  _ Firefly really dead when fanfiction exists?”

“Cute,” he snorts, kicking at her ankle lightly. Then, almost a little shyly, “But, uh, hey. Thanks for telling me everything. And for trusting me.”

It’s a little hard to meet his gaze, at this point, to be brave when it counts the most; but she tries her best. “You make it easy,” she manages, wringing her fingers together. “And you’re right, I do have a few more life-altering secrets to tell you. No, actually—” she can’t help her nervous laugh at that, gulping audibly, “—just one.”

He leans in a little closer at that, his arm brushing up against hers. “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” she replies, a little mesmerized by the slow flutter of his lashes, the splattering of freckles against his cheekbone. Carefully, she slides her hand up to touch them, slow enough that he could duck away if he wanted to. A question. “We never did finish our conversation, the last time.”

She gets her answer when he makes a soft, humming noise in agreement, eyes sliding shut when she begins to rub soothing circles into his skin. “We didn’t. But I can remind you how it goes. Or how it was supposed to go, in fact.”

It’s impossible to keep from  _ smiling,  _ at this point, because Bellamy Blake is a  _ nerd  _ and he loves her too. “Enlighten me then.”

“As you wish,” he murmurs before he’s kissing her; unrestrained and joyful and a little messy, noses bumping as she laughs into his mouth, tangling her hands in his hair. His hands go to her waist, flitting over to her back so he can pull her closer, and she hitches a leg over his so she can straddle him and kiss him however the hell she likes.

In the end, he’s the one who breaks away first.

“Fuck, Clarke,” he says, sounding all kinds of wrecked as he smooths out the now crumpled folds of her dress. “Shit. Your friend is going to kill me for fucking up your dress.”

“Raven,” she reminds him, swooping down for a quick, chaste kiss. “And it’s fine. I’m late, so my mom is probably already pissed anyway. What’s one crumpled dress?”

He looks a little sheepish at that, ducking his head down and smiling into the space between her breasts. “You should go.”

“I will,” Clarke murmurs, teasing her fingers through his hair. Then, conversationally, “But, you know. Since she’s going to be mad, either way.”

Lifting his head, he catches her knowing gaze, dissolving into a loud groan. “ _ Clarke _ . No.”

“You have a suit, right?” she asks, beaming, before tugging him up alongside her, weaving their fingers together. “Actually, don’t bother. I think you can borrow something from Roan. It’s not a big deal.”

He loops an arm around her, holding her close as he presses a quick kiss to her hair. Just like that, she knows the fight is won. It’s a nice feeling, she thinks. One she could get used to. “You’re lucky I love you, Princess.”

“Yeah, yeah.” She grins, burying her face into his chest. “Love you too.”


End file.
